#8 – The Stafford Challenge: Threads

Another poem for the challenge.

Below is the verse that I used for a prompt, if you would like to use it for your own writing prompt. My notes from this verse were also inspired by recently reading Corrie Ten Boom’s book “The Hiding Place” (I highly recommend it if you haven’t read it).

“I am the vine; you are the branches. The one who remains in me and I in him produces much fruit, because without me you can do nothing.” — John 15:5

Threads

I sew flowers along the hems of my garment.
Bright red thread curls around my fingers,
crudely and inexpertly grafted onto filthy, white cloth.
I get bored with daisies, so I switch to peonies, roses,
then move on to giant, red grapes.
I will sew without skill or abandon,
seeking all the while for my mind to be still,
to be focused on nothing but Your face and meager
imitations of your creations.
A black flea lands on the petal of a grand lily—
full-flowering and majestic in wobbly red outlines—
and I bless the flea. For his callousness.
His thirst for blood. His desire to spread a sickness so beyond himself,
that will soon course through my veins
as I course through the garment with thread.
All are for a reason. A break in solitude.
A reminder of filth, of death, of enemies’ darts,
of the precious red winding through,
leading life imperfectly toward You.

#7 – The Stafford Challenge: Coming Back

So … after a seven-month break (yikes) from the Stafford Challenge, I feel the Lord guiding me back to writing poetry. Not only writing poetry, but continuing this challenge (if you don’t know what I’m talking about, check out this post). I know most of the year has gone, but the beauty of this challenge is that it’s never too late to start. Even if you don’t pick up a pen until the last week of December, you will have accomplished writing seven brand-new poems for the year, which is a lot more than zero.

Here’s my poem for the day. It was based off a devotional journaling prompt I came across: “I’m coming back to you, Jesus.”

Coming Back

Dark days cover like a hard blanket, worn out from much use. No longer soft or enjoyable to the touch, a comfortless reminder of the past when sin used to feel home-like. The dog in me wants to return to its vomit stains, live that carefree life of self, where I could laugh so hard that I couldn’t see the pit where I was kept, mucking around in filth. Like a pig with brains, but the brains don’t help. Just makes you aware of your pigginess. And then, the day’s blanket got a little warmer, covering my cold, naked skin. It reminded me of something else, like if I dug a little deeper into those folds, shrunk down and climbed into the fibers, some sweet, gentle voice would find me, telling me that I’m His child and that I need to come home.

Day 5 (and 6): The Stafford Challenge – Two for … Wednesday?

Well, I dropped the ball yesterday and didn’t get my poem posted. So, that makes today a two-for day! I only wish it was Tuesday and not Wednesday so I would have that wonderful alliteration for today’s title.

These poems got a little dark on me, but I think this almost always tends to happen when I write. I do embrace the light in my life (abiding in Jesus is the only place to find true peace), but when I write, whatever I’m troubled about comes through. I hope if you are reading this you find them intriguing.

Day 5 (and 6).

Judge Not

The judgment finger is upon her. She turns to the wall, accepts death, weeps bitterly from the mouth that used to laugh at the prophet. “This one only ever tells me bad news. Where’s that girl who only ever tells me bad news?” Her goblet slopping fine wine down her fingers glistening with polish and jewels. “You are well, princess! You are loved! Your life will be nothing if not romance and pleasure for all your days!” She laughs, white teeth shining, smoky eyes lazily glancing over the overdressed dead under black, weighty lashes. “Where is the one who always gives bad news?” “Gone! Gone!” They bow, hoping to please. ” We beat her, excluded her, wrote nasty things on her social media. You’ll never hear her ugly, plain words again!” And she runs her weak fingers down the stucco wall against her bed, thoughts swimming and lingering with dread.

Something Hurts

Uneasy in spirit and soul. Electricity tickling the back of my neck. Part of it, a face in pain. The one I love. The look in his eyes touching somewhere I’m not conscious. The other part, the death of someone I said was nice. Who’s that? I don’t really know him. We met a couple times. He’s nice. Found dead. Took a minute because he’s always alone. Nothing unusual, even when the dogs barked a little more. He’s nice. But dead. Found naked. Alone. Dirty dishes. Dog feces. Face down. Found him there. Skin like wax. Cold. Alone. Thought I would have to explain the broken door. Apologize. Say, I’m sorry, dude, we were only worried you weren’t answering your phone. Stacks of filth. Something lingers on the back of my neck. He’s nice. He was nice. A nice guy.

Day 4: The Stafford Challenge

I took a day off yesterday (Sunday) to study my Bible, go to church, and pray and relax and refocus on God on His Word. I’ll probably take every Sunday off for this challenge, but since this is the Christian-ized Stafford Challenge, I think taking a day of rest every week is appropriate and necessary, to shift it all back to Him.

I also thought I’d include my Bible verse inspiration with this one. I probably won’t do this every time, but sometimes someone out there is looking for a fresh word from God and I always want to enable the Holy Spirit to do His thing.

Verse of the day:

He remembered that they were but flesh, a wind that passes and comes not again.
Psalm 78: 39 (ESV)

Day 4, here we go. Back to it.

Passing Wind

A wind that passes and comes not again. She’s not here anymore, gone with the fading breeze, all traces slowly disappearing in the minds of those she loved. When You breathe, Lord, do you inhale it all back to Yourself? A universe is born in it, millions of atoms knitted by it in a womb, a seed with all it needs to grow into a mighty oak, to be felled and die, food for the skittling insects. Breathe into mud, he is man. Death sneaks a crooked cough into her lungs. You pity our flesh, tried it out a bit yourself once and groaned. Though love kept you in that frail man-suit, itchy like a cheap sweater. She holds that holy flesh to her lips, covers them in tears and breathy cries pouring over that skin in oil-like praise. When his breath covers her in its gentle gusts to take her away, she’s ready.

Day 3: The Stafford Challenge (Or the SC?)

I just posted last night, but I’m getting a head start today on The Stafford Challenge (you can read about The Stafford Challenge in my first post). I’m starting to think that writing out “The Stafford Challenge” is a little cumbersome. I might start calling in “The SC” or “The Sta-Cha” or “The Staff-Chall” or “The artist formerly known as The Stafford Challenge,” I don’t know …. Any way, I digress.

Yesterday was my birthday (my 40th birthday! Yikes.) So that was primarily the inspiration for today’s poem. Something I love about poetry, even more than short stories, is the way you can use a poem to create an experience, almost like a painting or photograph, where you just take one scene, one moment, and reveal something profound there. I’m not saying I’m always successful at it, or that this is always my goal with a poem, but I love the potential.

Day 3!

Birthday Fog

Bright bushy camellias turn brown overnight
when the Earth takes a cold turn.
I needed something warm today, light, less gray.
It’s my birthday, you know, God, show a little love.
It’s my birthday and the town turned sopping wet,
the narrow road slick under thick boots.
Overcast gloomy warm in January in a sort of muggy way
that leaves the leaves brown my heart longing and writhing in self pity
like that fat ugly worm on the driveway.
But in this endless cloud of gray warmth
the flowers killed by the world’s ice are coming out again from their tight buds,
letting go and dappling the fog with pink and red and pure-as-heaven white.
The Lord says the clouds are coming
and the gray cloud isn’t always something to lament.
Camellias peel back their full color even while their dead sisters linger,
reminders that He is bringing the dead back to life.
That even the flowers ache to find the light of the King’s face.

Day 2: The Stafford Challenge

The day is nearly over, and even though there were innumerable distractions today no matter where I turned my head, I got my poem in. Seriously, we all can find 15 minutes in our day to get this poem thing done. And if we can’t, well, we probably should be getting our busy-butts out of bed 15 minutes earlier.

(If you have no idea what I’m talking about, here’s my first post talking about The Stafford Challenge.)

Day 2!

Write Again

Creation groans under the weight of my pen, so minuscule a thing as it is. Yet the notebook paper rolls its eyes (punch holes?) at my attempts to mimic God like some cartoon ape properly picking up her cup of tea (pinky out!) with her hand-like feet, right before shoving a finger up her nose and flinging her poo. I screech in frustration, throw the cup, watch the obscene beauty of destruction unfold across the concrete of my cage, wish creativity were as easy as this. But God gathers my monkey hands into His, kisses the fur on my forehead, leads my excrement-flinging self out of the mess inside the iron bars and into the sunshine grass, to array me in the glory so beyond my reach.

The Stafford Challenge: Day 1 (+ starting up this blog again)

I signed up for The Stafford Challenge this month to get to writing poetry again after a pretty long slump (you can read about what The Stafford Challenge is here). So far it’s been like grinding rusty gears together trying to get the poetry flowing again, and after wrestling with God with all my feelings of lameness and talentless-ness, I finally got a poem down.

Is it a good poem? Not really. But it was fun to write poetry again.

One part of the Stafford Challenge is to write down an aphorism before you start. I decided to Christian-ize this challenge by starting with a Bible verse that pops out to me during my daily Bible reading, or a thought that God has placed on my heart that morning. If you like writing poetry, and would like to try the Christian-ized version of the challenge, it goes like this:

Get a blank paper.
Write down the date.
Write down your Bible verse/Holy Spirit-inspired thought.
Write a small diary entry, just jotting down some thoughts.
Write your poem.
Do this every morning, for one year.

Honestly, this only takes about 15 minutes. And then you have a poem to work with. And even if you don’t like your poem, tomorrow you’ll have another poem to work with.

I’m recording these rough-draft poems here because I’ve always wanted this blog to be a space where I experiment with poetry—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and maybe the Holy Spirit will send these to someone and use them for the kingdom in some wonderful, unexpected way.

So, let’s do it. One year of poems, Day 1.

Miss Fishie

Struggling on a line right now, wriggling like a fish. Set myself free—painfully, but only for a moment—or stay hooked and get pulled further and further away from God? Yeah, that’s not really an option, is it? Black nets, hands churning and groping, then waiting. You gave everything: gills to breathe even when things got deep, scales shining against a summer sunbeam—beauty in a blue wilderness. Something shiny pretty made by man will tear open flesh—first your greedy mouth, then your heart—lay you on a slab of unholy sacrifice to carnal appetites—serve you up pierced, scaled (and found wanting), and fried up with some french-fried potatoes and a stale beer at Pete’s Seafood Shanty. (The grip of you much more gentle, like being gripped by Love itself. Can’t slip through those fingers, no matter how slimy I am.) So grip, Father, rip. Until these wide eyes see.

Poem: I wish you knew

I wish you knew (by Veronica McDonald)

I wish you knew…
that God is like Christmas
all peace and joy
and goodwill towards men
and women and children and doctors and lawyers
and salesmen and telemarketers and tax collectors and
that prostitute you called trash the other day and
threw a bottle at and that bum that lives in the
doorframe of your dying dad’s derelict
apartment building and the drug addict who smashed
the glass of the fire escape window and
that policeman you called who was
pretty sympathetic on the phone but
ultimately did nothing even after you complained
on Twitter all day in a long thread about the
state of things around this country of ours and
God’s like, I got this, just take this gift of
Christ that I can implant into your soul forever, just
take it, and it’ll feel like the best part of a Hallmark
movie after that girl from the big city discovers the
true meaning of Christmas and every time you sink
into that deep dark pit of demon-hell abyss, that joy’ll
pull you out and show you a glimpse of how maybe
life could be if it were dipped in something more
substantial than two-year old Christmas chocolate. I’m
making all things new and all things good
my child, just come and rest in my arms
soft as your grandma’s but stronger than
Superman’s, what can man do to you? But
you’re like, whatever dude, I got this with my frail
flesh and failing brain and all the power
the internet allows me to my 3,000 cyber
friends who waggle their fingers in
agreement with my many on-point
opinions. And God’s like, OK, I’ll give you your
space, but like, call me sometime, sweetie. And
eat your veggies. And call your mom, too, she
loves you. She’s only ever wanted your unfailing love
(like me) ever since she held you crying and cooing and
pecking at her neck like a dove, after going through
the agony of birth pains, tired but calm and
melting in that baby-gaze that covered her
like grace.

Photo Credit: “The Virgin, Baby Jesus, and Saint John the Baptist” by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, 1881 (Public Domain).

Book Review: ‘I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember’ by Matthew J. Andrews

In his debut poetry collection, I Close My Eyes and I Almost Remember, Matthew J. Andrews takes a creative, and somewhat dark, look into the lives of different people from the Bible. In the book’s description, Andrews states that these poems were “born of spiritual crisis,” which is exactly what this collection feels like. Each poem is filled with doubt, struggle, and the weight of consequence as he guides the reader through the imagined perspectives of various Bible characters from Genesis to Revelation. What stands out the most in this collection is that the transformative power of God’s love is largely absent; Andrews leaves God’s actions and the tremendous weight those actions leave on mankind, but without the comfort of God’s love and His promise for a glorious future. In these poems, God is closely associated with fire, while ash lies in the wake of His intensity. Those who encounter God, rather than God Himself, are the focus. Each poem presents subtle reminders of man’s frailty and mortality by evoking images from creation—dirt, dust, ash, water, breath, and blood. These images capture our weaknesses and the frustration of human existence, reminders that we come from dust and to dust we shall return. After the suffering and struggles seem to end in the final poem, “The Gardener,” the reader is reminded that it’s all to begin again, as the Gardener feels the desire to plant a new Eden. The trail of pain and hardship traveled as the result of the events in the last garden makes the reader feel hesitant—was it all worth it? Will it be any better next time?

The more I read and meditate on each poem, the more I experience Andrews’ amazing capability to make each person of the Bible come alive with his or her humanity laid bare. My favorites are “Exile” and “Unfinished Psalms from the Private Notebook of King David,” though all of the poems were able to captivate with their unique viewpoints. This poetry collection is a great read for anyone familiar with the Bible, and will likely prove to be especially rich for those well-acquainted with the stories Andrews uses for inspiration (he does provide notes for context). In the poem, “Mary Remembers,” the speaker (presumably Mary) states, “I have heard the story so many times, I close my eyes and I almost remember.” If you feel you have heard these Bible stories “so many times,” then I recommend this book. Andrews causes you to forget what you know, and see these people with fresh eyes. At the same time, he causes you to think deeply on the relationship between God and man, pointing to the struggles and doubts that occur in all of us, and offering no easy answers.

Book Review: ‘Hands of Years’ by Riley Bounds

In his debut poetry chapbook Hands of Years, Riley Bounds starts with the waste buried “at the tale end of the earth” and slowly works his way through a harrowing path, one that is never easy but gravitates unsteadily towards the light of Christ. In the first few poems, Riley describes a world marked by death—one where “strays” die alone in a universe consisting of the broken pieces of harsh reality. He then moves across the brokenness to shatter our beacons of earthly comforts—the apologist, the angel, mother, father, rainbows, even dogs. As he sifts through the glass shards and ashes, one hope awaits in the peripheral. The poem “Doxology.” is a turning point, a return to a childlike state and to the foundations of faith, building anew out of the wreckage. The result is a relief; the last poems “Dusk Hymn.” and “Prayer.” are a final release into the light of day after wandering in darkness. The book begins and ends with a “pirouette:” from the meaningless and bleak dance of particles, to smiling individuals (“innumerable as the dust”) engaged in a cosmic dance with the Creator. By the end, the “atoms” of mortality are shed, and the speaker finally finds what he is looking for, in the first word of the final poem: hope—the hope for “netted souls, refracting each other’s given light” to become meaningful beings through the act of singing praise. The lost beacons are fulfilled in Christ Himself—“He smiles for me, the smile my father never could and the smile my mother never gave me”—leaving both speaker and reader with a sense of restoration and healing.

A few of my favorites from this collection are “Canticle.,” “Cass.,” “Mother.,” and “Father.,” though each piece holds memorable lines and imagery that I anticipate readers will return to over and over.

Hands of Years is a short but powerful and honest exploration for hope in a broken life— a quest for God when He seems absent. This book will speak deeply to those searching for hope as well as those going through the struggles that sometimes come with faith. I find Riley Bounds’ ability to carry such weight in few words impressive, and I look forward to reading more of his work in the future. I highly recommend it.